Rainy Days and Chocolate Kisses
by the sixth turk
Summary: Namine remembers fondly the day that Roxas first introduced her to chocolate milk. Namine x Roxas, Namixas. Oneshot.


Rainy days require chocolate milk.

Naminé sits at the window, chewing on her straw and staring at nothing through the watery glass. The carton is a comforting weight in her hand. With a sigh, she lets the curtain fall, shutting out the sight of abandoned streets and dark black clouds.

There are too many clouds in her world.

As if her thoughts have summoned it, a dimension door opens in the center of her stark white room.

Hastily, Naminé drops the forbidden drink in the trash can next to the table, tossing discarded sketches on top to hide its presence. She sits down on the chair and folds her hands meekly in her lap.

A figure steps out of the cloud. Naminé sighs inwardly. She's tired of seeing the Organization members, tired of black coats, tired of being forced to use her power over and over. Even the thought makes her feel sick. The fact that the memories she's unchaining are mere shadows of reality does nothing to assuage her guilt.

And Naminé can not help but dread the day when they will utter the fateful command; the day when they tell her to rearrange the memories of the person she holds dearest.

This is Naminé's most closely guarded secret.

To her, Roxas is more than an experiment of the heart or a power to wield against the light. He is more than a mere Nobody. To her, Roxas is a person with his own thoughts and dreams.

_Can two Nobodies make a Somebody?_

Naminé can count on one hand the times she has felt truly whole. Each is a precious memory of Roxas. She remembers sitting on the top of the clock tower, watching the sunset make a fiery halo in his hair. The way his smile could light up his entire face. The soft brush of hands that made them both blush. A feathery kiss in the moonlight, tasting of sweet chocolate milk and something undeniably Roxas.

Naminé cannot imagine forgetting him. And she will _not_ make Roxas forget her.

She sits in the chair with her feet hooked around the legs. Her sketchbook lies open on the table. Naminé ignores the figure in the black coat and smoothes the paper. Almost reverently, she picks up a crayon.

It is sapphire blue, the same color as the eyes that hold her soul in their depths.

She has no sooner lifted it from the table than a black-gloved hand knocks it from her hand. It smashes into pieces, leaving a blue streak across the page.

"Naminé, I know he's talked to you."

She will not bow her head in humiliation as she has done so many other times. The truth will always surface. Fantasies cannot last. There are no secrets in a world that only exists at the will of another.

Instead, she looks up, staring into the depths of the black hood, hoping to somehow reach whatever humanity remains beneath it. She knows without a doubt that what she dreads most will soon be what comes to pass.

"He can't know about you." The voice is terrifying in its impassivity.

Naminé wants to plug her ears, run away, do anything that will prevent her from hearing what she knows is coming next.

"Unchain his memory."

She shatters inside. For so long, she has been a puppet, and there is no strength left in her to refuse.

But she's done it once before. Once, for someone who believed in her despite everything she did to him. Someone who genuinely cared about the person behind the deeds.

_Sora._

But he's gone now, regaining the memories she took from him. Slowly forgetting her as he sleeps, as his heart reverts back to true purity.

There's someone else, though. Someone who holds her imaginary heart in his hand like a snow-white dove. Someone who – though Nobodies should be incapable of it – loves her.

She will _not_ be the instrument of his destruction.

Naminé stands up, still looking at the blankness beneath the hood.

"No." Her voice is tiny and meek.

The Organization member laughs. "No? That's very funny, Naminé. Now do it."

She cannot refuse. With desperation, Naminé reaches down into the empty space where a heart should be, the space that fairly glows with Roxas' presence. She latches onto it fiercely, draws strength from it.

"I will not. And you can't make me." There is ice in her words.

For a minute, the black-coated figure is taken aback. Never before has Naminé displayed any vehemence. But then he shrugs loosely. "I've heard this before."

Naminé knows he's heard it before. But this time is different. This time, it's _Roxas._

This time, she will not – cannot ­– give in

The ties that bind her soul to his are too strong to be shattered by mere force. The Organization, for all their knowledge of the heart, are clueless when it comes to love.

This is Naminé's weapon. And she is only beginning to discover its true power.


End file.
